


Hysteria

by abelrunner, fatal_drum



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bondage, Breathplay, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Enemas, Gaslighting, Hurt/Comfort, Hysteria treatment, M/M, Medical Abuse, Medical Kink, Multi, Piss kink, Public Use, Rough Oral Sex, Slut Shaming, Speculums, Squirting, Trans Martin Blackwood, Vaginal Fisting, Vaginal Sex, electric shock, eventually we promise, straitjackets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:54:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26585455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abelrunner/pseuds/abelrunner, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: All Doctor David wants is for Martin to focus on his therapy. Is that so much to ask?
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Doctor David, Martin Blackwood/Helen | The Distortion, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 47
Kudos: 204





	1. Standard of Care

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, folks. Definitely read the tags carefully on this one! When we say dead dove, we mean it. 
> 
> Many thanks to the friends who have encouraged this fic!
> 
> The following words are used to describe Martin's anatomy: cunt, cock, mons, folds, slit, cervix, tits, breasts

"Something tells me you're not focusing on your therapy," Dr. David says. 

Martin swallows hard, trying to control his racing heart. He's strapped to the exam table, legs spread wide, ankles bound to the stirrups, with his hospital gown rucked up above his chest. 

Dr. David's hand strokes the rod he's holding. His hands are long and sensitive, his face achingly familiar. It's Jon's face, Jon's voice, though Dr. David assures him he's never heard of Jonathan Sims or the Magnus Institute. Those are just fantasies Martin's made up to justify his "condition."

"Please don't, " Martin whispers. 

The doctor's eyes narrow. "You really don't want to get better, do you?" he snaps. 

"I do! I do!" Martin promises, squirming against the thick leather straps.

Dr. David doesn't look convinced. He goes from stroking the rod to idly tracing along the inside of Martin's thigh with it, up and up and up, ignoring Martin's whimpers and twitches.

"I've devoted a lot of time to you," he says archly. "Has it been a waste?"

"No, no, I—"

There's a snap and a burst of pain like a bee sting on the tender flesh of Martin's thigh, inches from his cunt. He shrieks and jerks as Dr. David drags a long finger from the base of Martin's cunt up to his cock. It comes away shiny with Martin’s slick. 

"Hm," he says. "I suppose that's progress."

Martin bites his lip, humiliated tears welling in his eyes. He hates the cattle prod, but Dr. David has him trained like one of Pavlov's dogs, salivating at the sound of the bell. 

"You're awfully wet for someone who insists he isn't a slut," Dr. David observes, massaging Martin's cock with the base of his hand. 

"I-I'm sorry!" Martin cries, fighting the urge to rock his hips against Dr. David's hand. He gets a disapproving smack to his cunt for his trouble.

"What have I said about apologizing for things you're not going to change?" He snaps. "Don't insult me by lying. You're not sorry at all. Why aren't you sorry, Slut?"

_ My name's Martin, _ Martin thinks spitefully. But that’s not what Dr. David likes to hear, and when Dr. David doesn’t like what he hears, Martin pays for it. What he says instead is, "Because I like it, Sir."

Jon's— _ Dr. David's _ — face softens slightly. He traces the folds of Martin's cunt with his finger, light and teasing. "You don't need to tell those silly little lies to get attention. Then again, what else would I expect from a stupid little whore?"

Pain lashes up Martin's spine as Dr. David shocks him again, this time on the crease of his thigh, dangerously close to his groin. Dr. David taps the rod idly against his mons.

"Why don't you tell me how much you appreciate your therapy?"

The shocks hurt so much already, he can’t imagine them getting worse. Martin starts to gasp and sob, the fear of the prod turning his mind to mush. He babbles out the words he hopes will save him, hating himself for each one. 

"I-I-I'm so g-g-grateful," he manages to choke out. "I-I-I'm just confused, b-but I want to be good, Dr. David! I swear!"

"If you wanted to be good, you'd  _ be _ good," Dr. David sneers. "Try again." 

Martin whimpers as the tip of the prod brushes against his cunt. It takes him a moment to swallow the panic enough to speak, and it comes out rushed and jumbled. "Y-you're the best therapist I've ever had, no one else understands me," he sobs. "P-please, can I suck your cock, Doctor?"

It's the last thing Martin wants, but it would at least get him to move the prod. Dr. David purses his lips, considering. The gesture is so  _ Jon _ that Martin's chest aches.

"Have you earned it?" Dr. David asks, and Martin's heart sinks. Dr. David gives him another shock, this time on his mons, and Martin nearly pisses himself, the jolt was so close to his bladder.

"Answer me, Slut. It wasn't a rhetorical question." Martin can feel himself start to hyperventilate as the realization that there is no right answer, no way to get out of it, sinks into his bones.

"No, sir," he whispers brokenly. Dr. David beams.

"Good boy," he says with feeling, before pressing the prod against Martin's cunt and pulling the trigger. Martin screams, a trickle of piss escaping as he jerks in the restraints. 

"Please let me earn it!" he cries. "I'll be good, I promise!"

Dr. David clucks his tongue. "When you've already made this mess?"

"Please," Martin begs, watching the prod sway teasingly back and forth across his hips like a snake. "Please, please, I just want to suck your cock, sir, I love the taste, I need it, sir, please. I-I'm a slut, I'm  _ your  _ slut, I-I-" He's struck with awful, disgusting inspiration and runs with it before he can think better of it, "I-I'll lick up my mess first, sir. I'll clean it up, please just fuck my face, it’s all I want, I want to show you how much you've helped me!"

"What makes you think I'd want to fuck that filthy little hole?" Dr. David asks, eyes fixed on Martin's mouth. He glances down at the piss dripping down the table. "I suppose it will save me the cleanup, at least. Do  _ not  _ try to run. You know what happened last time." 

Martin swallows, remembering. An orderly had wrestled him to the ground and injected him with something that made him hallucinate for what felt like days. He holds carefully still as Dr. David unstraps him from the table. Once he's free, he kneels to lick his mess from the leather surface. It tastes awful. It also tastes familiar. He doesn’t even feel the urge to vomit or even gag anymore, he's had to do this so many times. It's the first time he volunteered for it though, and he doesn't like the way that sits in his chest.

He works as quickly as he can, not wanting to test Dr. David's patience any more than he already has. When he's done, he stays on his knees and shuffles to face Dr. David, looking up at him. He’s ready for a slap, another shock, or a cock to force its way down his throat; they all seem equally likely at any given moment.

Dr. David raises an eyebrow. "Well, then?" 

Martin lifts his hand to open Dr. David's belt, only to have it slapped away. 

"Like a  _ proper _ slut," Dr. David says primly. 

Flushing with humiliation, Martin leans forward to catch the zipper between his teeth, pulling it awkwardly. He can feel the hard outline of Dr. David's cock against his cheek. Dr. David helps him with the belt, letting him pull his pants down with his teeth. His erection springs free, hitting him in the face. Sometimes he wonders if this is what Jon's looks like, the same thick shaft with its velvety head peeking from its foreskin. His mouth waters shamefully at the sight. 

"You know what to do," Dr. David says. “Lord knows you’ve had enough practice.”

He's right about that. And the worst thing is, Martin didn't used to feel guilty about it. He used to like being able to make people feel good, but even that's been taken away, tainted. 

He takes Dr. David's cock in his mouth, swallowing until he chokes and his eyes water, the way Dr. David likes it. Hands behind his back, not allowed to touch. Legs apart, his cunt cold, gaping and exposed. He's probably dripping onto the floor, but he can't hear it over the blood rushing in his ears or the wet slurps around Dr. David's cock. He closes his eyes, losing himself in the familiar weight of the doctor's cock in his mouth, when pain sparks across his chest, making him whine deep in his throat. His eyes fly open to see the prod pressed against his nipple. He tries to pull back, to plead for Dr. David to stop, but David tangles a hand in his hair, dragging him onto his cock until he gags.

The hand in his hair making him feel drifty, weightless. He can’t breathe; Dr. David’s cock is too far down his throat, fucking him relentlessly. The prod goes back and forth from tit to tit, and between that and Dr. David's now furious pace, his vision starts growing fuzzy around the edges. Dimly, Martin wonders if this is how he'll die: choking on a monster's cock. He wishes he had the energy to care.

He just doesn't want Jon to see. There's no way Jon would knowingly let this happen to him. But Jon knows everything, doesn’t he? He knew where to find the avatars, where to find Daisy— 

Unless he saw what a whore Martin was, spreading his legs for this monster wearing Jon’s face, and decided not to bother. Jon would be right to abandon him. Tears slide down his face as Dr. David fucks his throat.

Just when he thinks he's going to pass out, Dr. David pulls out, rubbing his spit-slick cock against Martin's cheek. Martin gasps for air, completely missing his next words until a painful grip on his hair forces him to look up. 

"I  _ said _ , you can have my cock inside you or the prod. Your choice." Dr. David smirks. "It's important for patients to play an active role in the therapeutic process."

Martin imagines the prod jammed in his cunt, shocking him from the inside, and shudders. "Please let me have your cock!" he begs, nuzzling it desperately with his cheek.

_ " _V_ ery _ good," Dr. David says, and Martin hates how the praise makes him feel almost dizzy with relief and gratitude. Dr. David points to the table Martin had been strapped in. "Up, Slut," he says, mockingly cheerful, like he's a very unfortunately named dog. Martin rushes to obey.

Dr. David likes him on his back, with his legs spread wide and his feet in the stirrups. He likes to look at Martin's face while he fucks him, likes being able to pinch his nipples or rub his cock— or if Martin's been mouthy, to wrap a strong hand around his throat and squeeze until spots dance in front of his eyes. Dr. David stands between his spread thighs, studying him as if he were a particularly interesting insect. 

"In all my years of practice, I've never seen such a shameless  _ whore _ _,"_ he says. He chooses that moment to thrust inside to the hilt, making him gasp at the sudden fullness. "No wonder you never had any friends. They could all just fuck you and forget you. But not me. Not your Doctor."

Martin wants to argue, but Dr. David slams in again, and all he can do is whimper.

“What was his name? Tom? Tim? You fucked him like the slut you are, and he never paid you any mind after.” 

Fresh tears well in Martin’s eyes. “That’s not—” 

Dr. David circles his hips, and Martin loses his train of thought. 

"Thank me, Slut," he drawls, leaning over so that their faces are so terribly close that Martin nearly kisses him in his sex-drunk haze. Guilt lances through him as he realizes what he nearly did, but he doesn't have time for guilt, he has to respond before the doctor punishes him again..

"Thank you, sir—oh, oh—thank you, it feels so good, it feels so good to have you inside me, sir, please don't stop, please, please, please—" Martin doesn't feel like he's in control of his mouth anymore. His voice doesn't sound like his own; was his voice always that rough, that broken? Surely not. Dr. David leans in to latch onto the column of Martin's throat, biting and sucking hard. Martin instinctively tilts his head to give him more room.

"That  _ Jon _ of yours never fucked you like this, did he?" Dr. David demands, biting down on the join of his neck and shoulder. "Even in your fantasies, you knew better than to imagine someone loving you once they understood what a slut you were." 

Guilt lances through Martin, bringing fresh tears to his eyes, even as he wraps his legs around Dr. David's waist to pull him deeper. 

"Answer me," Dr. David snaps, grabbing one of his nipples and pinching it until Martin cries out. 

"No!" Martin gasps. "He didn't, no one's fucked me like this!" 

Dr. David chuckles darkly, grinding his hips against Martin’s cock until he has to bite back a shriek.

“Poor thing,” he coos. “Good thing you have me, then.” He thrusts once, twice, and Martin feels his self-control start to cave in. He fights the orgasm even as his thighs begin to shake, but Dr. David knows exactly how to make him come, and he spasms helplessly around his doctor's cock as he gushes all over himself. Dr. David fucks him even harder after that, pounding into him until he fills him with a low groan.

Afterward, he withdraws a plug from his lab coat, sliding the cold metal into Martin's dripping cunt. Martin, fucked silly and limp, doesn’t even notice until it’s inside him, cold as ice on his hot, tender flesh. He whines, unable to speak through the haze that’s crept over his brain, his hips rocking up to meet the plug. 

"Don't let that slip out," Dr. David says sternly. "Understand?" Martin nods stupidly, clenching down around it as hard as his exhausted, slick cunt will let him.

* * *

Time works strangely in Wonderland. Which isn’t a sentence Martin ever thought would apply to his life so literally. He can’t remember how long he’s been here, shuffled from his hospital bed to the treatment room and back, over and over and over again. Sometimes it feels like it’s been years. Certainly longer than when he was in the Lonely, but that can’t be true. Jon would have found him by now if that was the case. So he can’t have been trapped here long.

He can’t remember what any of the staff look like aside from Dr. David, though he’s seen them enough. He thinks they wear masks, or maybe their faces are masks. Something like that. Sometimes they seem to change whenever he looks away from them, the way they might if he were dreaming. 

Martin… _ thinks  _ he woke up here. He’s not sure, though. He can remember being with Jon, and he can remember being in Wonderland with Dr. David, but not the events that connected those two states. Did Jon leave him behind? Did he decide Martin as too slow, too stupid, too—

_ No, no, no, _ Martin thinks viciously, sitting in an empty whitewashed room, naked and waiting for something,  _ anything  _ to change.  _ He wouldn’t leave you. He’s looking for you. This place is just… weird. _

Dr. David says Jon doesn’t exist. Dr. David  _ looks  _ exactly like Jon: same greying hair, dark skin, sharp features. He looks like Jon when he first became Head Archivist, when he and Martin first met. He  _ sounds  _ like him. It makes everything so much worse, so much more confusing.

When they first met, Dr. David took one look at Martin, frantic and flailing as two faceless orderlies dragged him back to the patient chair in the middle of the room, and declared that, in his professional medical opinion, Martin was an incorrigible slut.

"That's what this is," he said over Martin's screaming as he was strapped down to the bed, legs fixed into stirrups. "A cry for attention. For  _ cock. _ " The orderlies shoved some sort of leather gag into Martin's mouth, almost like a bit. 

"I had hoped you would regain your senses," Dr. David had sighed. "But you're just as erratic as ever. Strip him, please; we need to do a full exam."

Martin froze. Strip? No, no, no, not like that, not like—

Cool metal slid under his shirt, pressing against the soft skin of his stomach as the orderlies sliced efficiently through his clothes to bare his chest, leaving his binder and shirt in tatters around him. One began to collect the scraps while another got to work on his trousers.

The air was cold on his skin as he was stripped bare. Martin shut his eyes tight, face and eyes burning with humiliation, as gloved fingers stroked his chest, tugging at his nipples.

"Still very responsive," Dr. David said. "Obviously." As if he’d touched Martin a thousand times before. Martin's nipples had gone hard in the chill air. Dr. David dismissed the orderlies after they'd taken Martin's boots and socks. They left without a word, leaving Martin naked and panting in the examination chair, Jon’s mirror image watching him with hungry, predatory eyes.

"As I was saying," he continued. "You're a slut. It's a form of hysteria, you know. A chronic need for sex, a certain lacking of higher mental facilities. Denial is a common symptom of mismanaged hysteria, as well as an…over-inflated sense of self."

Dr. David stepped closer, settling between Martin's legs and looming over him, cold hands pressed against his inner thighs. "There's only one cure for it. Not to worry. You're here with me for a reason. I'm the preeminent specialist in dealing with stupid, spoiled sluts like you." He patted Martin's cunt gently, almost affectionately, ignoring the snarl it produced. "I've concluded that these tantrums are the result of a lack of firmness on my end. It's the great tragedy of psychiatry; ask anyone. Sometimes  _ kindness  _ simply isn't what the patient needs to flourish." Suddenly, Dr. David brought his hand back and gave Martin's cock a sharp, stinging slap. Martin jerked and cried out, struggling vainly to move away.

"And I most  _ certainly _ want to see you flourish, Slut."

"This is what you enjoy, isn't it?" Dr. David continued, pulling his chair up between Martin's splayed legs. "What you need? Someone to treat you like the useless whore you are, and not expect you to make the right decisions?" Martin's angry grunts took on a more frantic tone as Dr. David's fingers poked and prodded at his cock, tugged on his inner and outer labia with an experimental air. 

Everything had felt far too  _ immediate.  _ Martin wanted nothing more than to simply retreat into his head, be a ragdoll under this freak’s hands. But he couldn't. He was too sensitive, too unaccustomed to being touched. Instead, he felt himself start to get wet. His face grew hot with shame.

Dr. David let out a huff of laughter, making Martin twitch as the air grazed hot, wet flesh.

"As expected. Actually, no." Martin jerked and wailed as Dr. David suddenly shoved what felt like half his damn hand into Martin's cunt, stretching him painfully. "Much worse than expected. You really can't help yourself, can you?" Martin felt the fingers inside him shift and groaned, tugging at the leather straps. "I'd feel badly for you if I didn't know that wasn't exactly what you wanted. Isn't that right? You want a pity fuck. Instead of just opening your legs like a good whore, you pretend you're a  _ person  _ like the rest of us and try to con your way into getting what you want."

Martin tried to shout, to argue that he was wrong, that this was all a terrible mistake, but all he could manage was to drool around the gag. Dr. David withdrew his hand and cupped Martin's chin with his damp fingers. The scent of arousal flooded Martin's nostrils, making him flush even more deeply.

"I'm going to give you everything you need, even though you're a disgusting whore. Because I'm your doctor, and it's my job to care for you." Dr. David's lips curled in a cruel smile, a smile he'd never seen on Jon's face.

Martin tried to go away inside, tried to focus on something other than Dr. David whistling as he collected various instruments from around the room. He couldn't. Every clatter made him flinch, every time Dr. David walked closer he whined and twisted, fought to close his legs, to hide his body's traitorous reactions. He watched helplessly as Dr. David coated his fingers in lubricant and then pressed them into his cunt, stretching him open painfully. When he hit resistance at the knuckles, Dr. David frowned. 

"For your therapy to be successful, you really are going to have to open up for me," he said, clearly irritated. He pushed in deeper, making Martin scream behind the gag. "Ah!  _ Much  _ better." 

Martin howled behind the gag as Dr. David forced himself inside, stretching him painfully. By the time Dr. David's hand had sunk up to the heel, Martin was hyperventilating, snot and drool and tears dripping onto his bare chest with the ferocity of his sobs. Dr. David tutted at him, patting Martin's inner thigh with his free hand.

"Now really, there's no need for dramatics," he said. "It's not as if you've never taken my fist before."

Martin was simply unprepared to try and figure out what the fuck _ that  _ was supposed to mean, and even if he had been, Dr. David abruptly twisted his hand _ just so _ , circling Martin's cock with his thumb. 

Taken completely by surprise, Martin spasmed in his bonds, a guttural groan escaping as his cunt clenched down on Dr. David's hand like a vice, the movement of his fingers dragging the orgasm out longer and longer. Martin expected him to stop when he was done coming, but he kept rubbing his cock in insistent circles, making him bite down hard on the gag. He thrashed in a useless attempt to get away, but he was bound too tightly, the leather straps digging into his flesh. 

Finally, Dr. David withdrew. His fist felt even larger coming out, a fresh ache that brought more tears to his eyes. Then Martin saw the speculum. 

_ No, no, no _ he tried to shout, but the gag muffled his protests. Dr. David ignored him as he slid the cold metal inside his cunt and spread him open.

Martin stared up at the ceiling, wide-eyed at the new violation. He bit down hard at the gag as Dr. David's touch returned, probing at the inner walls of his cunt.

"Do you know how I know you're a slut?" Dr. David asked casually. "Because you do this. You play coy, pretend to forget everything we've gone over time and time again, but then we go through the cycle again and you respond just the same as always: legs spread, drooling for anything I'll put inside you."

Martin wanted to scream and rage. He wanted to curse Dr. David into oblivion. He wanted to have Jon's powers, just for a moment, so he could make every Eye in the sky turn and stare at the bastard until he was nothing but a smear on the floor.

Instead, he whimpered as a thick dollop of lube and slick slid from his cunt and onto the floor, flushing as Dr. David laughed.

"What a hungry little cunt this is," he remarked, reaching past the speculum to stroke his cervix. Martin shuddered, twitching around the cold metal. "If it were up to you, I'd never get any rest at all, would I?" 

With his other hand, Dr. David reached for the instrument tray, selecting a small metal object and pressing it against Martin's cock. Then he pressed the switch, and Martin gasped as the vibrator whirred to life.

It was powerful, stronger than anything he'd used on himself before. And he was already so sensitive, having barely come down from the last orgasm forced on him. So it wasn't his fault that the vibrator sent him into another orgasm almost immediately, one that started intense to the point of pain and just got  _ worse _ , built and built and built, until finally, Martin felt his body give out and gush all over Dr. David's arm, the chair, the floor. And the vibrator stayed pressed against his cock.    
  
Martin sobbed into the gag as Dr. David pressed the vibrator more firmly against him, wringing another agonizing orgasm from his body, tears and snot running down his face as his bladder released all over the bed. 

"We really do have our work cut out for us," Dr. David said, chuckling. "Lucky for you, I'm a  _ very  _ good doctor."


	2. Reinforcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin attempts to escape, with dire consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who's encouraged us with this fic! <3 
> 
> Warning: this chapter is the darkest and also the most graphic. Definitely mind those tags, lovelies.

At first, Martin tells himself he’s playing for time. If he’s quiet and obedient and says what Dr. David wants him to say, then he can survive long enough for Jon to save him. It’s the best strategy to escape Wonderland with most of his sanity intact. But Dr. David _looks_ just like Jon, and _sounds_ just like Jon, and insists that Jon doesn’t exist. And wouldn’t Jon have come by now if he were real? He told Martin he was his _reason._ He should have come by now. 

_Maybe he heard you,_ a nasty little voice in the back of his head whispers. _Maybe he heard you begging to get fucked and come on and spat on, and decided a stupid slut like you wasn’t worth the hassle anymore._ He can’t make that voice shut up. He can’t take much more of Dr. David’s “therapy,” either. He needs to get out of Wonderland, one way or another, or he’s going to lose himself.

He plays the part of the good patient for as long as he can manage. He takes the pills Dr. David gives him and pretends to be grateful for his "therapy," all while keeping a careful watch on the routines of the places. It's hard, given the way time passes in Wonderland, but he does the best he can. Somehow he manages to steal a scalpel from an instrument tray while Dr. David is fucking him over a gurney. He hides this treasure in a hole in the mattress and bides his time. 

His opportunity comes when another patient gets violent during treatment. He doesn't see it happen, just hears an orderly’s pained screams and sees a group of staff rushing to help. Dr. David swears and drops the plug he'd been about to use on Martin. 

"Don't move," Dr. David orders, as if Martin weren't trapped under a dozen leather straps. 

Martin can’t even respond with the gag in place. But once Dr. David is gone, he can reach the scalpel.

It's a terrifying struggle. His hands are half-numb from the tight straps, shaking with adrenaline as he inches the scalpel out of the mattress like a splinter from flesh. Then it's a matter of sawing through the bindings, thick leather and canvas. It’s hard work, but he can feel them slowly giving way.

 _I don't even have to cut all the way through them,_ he reminds himself frantically. _Just enough to break through. Just that._

His breathing is painfully loud in his ears, and he forces himself to try to focus on the sounds around him, but it's a lost cause. He just has to work faster. 

Pain lances through him as he slips and slices into his palm. He bites down hard on his lip to avoid crying out. After that, he works more carefully, even as blood seeps into the mattress. Finally, _finally,_ his wrist comes free, and he manages to deal with the rest of the restraints without incident. 

Sliding from the bed, he creeps to the door, risking a glance into the hallway. No one there. He spots a supply closet a few doors down. If he's lucky, he might be able to nick a lab coat or some scrubs, and hopefully a bandage for his hand. 

The hallway is eerily quiet as he hurries towards the closet. The patient rooms are silent, and there’s not a single orderly to be found. That’s not right. There should be people, or something like people. He's sure there's some meaning behind it. To make him second-guess his own memory, his own perception. 

_Well, it won't work,_ he thinks fiercely, reaching for the door handle. 

It’s locked.

He pulls harder, rattling the handle, but it refuses to open. _Fuck._ He kicks it just to be sure, which probably hurts him more than the door given that he's barefoot. 

He takes a deep breath. He just needs to find another door. Unbidden, the image of a sunny yellow door comes to mind, followed by weeks of struggling through endless corridors. He shudders. 

Creeping down the hall, he tries another door. This one opens easily. 

He wishes it hadn’t. 

It's another patient room. The patient is bound with endless white canvas straps, so many he can't make out their form, can't tell if they're a man or a woman, or even human at all. The patient makes a high, keening sound, wriggling under the restraints. Whatever is beneath the straps has too many joints to be a person. 

Martin's heart hammers in his chest. He can hear himself echoing the patient's high whine of distress as he backs into the hall, stumbling against the wall. _They can't do that to me,_ he thinks wildly. _Please, please, please, Jon, don't let them do that to me._

He walks faster, checking each door as he goes past. He avoids the patient rooms, a bit guiltily—he can't free the entire facility. And even if he did, where would they go, with the whole world like this? He shudders. 

After a small eternity, he finds an open supply closet, and dashes inside, relief flooding through him. At least he's not in the open anymore. 

His relief is short-lived, evaporating once he sees the sort of "supplies" Wonderland keeps on hand. Row upon row of restraints, leather straps, rubber gags, and straitjackets. Gleaming metal implements, from Wartenberg pinwheels to urethral sounds, and some devices he doesn't even want to speculate on. He swallows, looking away. Finally, his eyes settle on a pair of scrubs that look to be his size. He strips out of his gown and pulls them on, though he has nothing to wear underneath.

He grabs a mask too, hoping it will be enough to prevent him being recognized. He listens at the door, straining to hear footsteps over his pounding heart. After a few moments of silence, he opens the door and slips out.

The halls are still empty. With every step, he expects Dr. David to turn the corner, to take him back to his cell. He has to fight the urge to start sprinting down the halls, screaming for Jon or Basira or hell, even... _Helen._

He freezes, the idea sticking like a burr to his brain. Would Helen help him? He's not stupid enough to think she's trustworthy but... but she seems to prefer him and Jon being together. Maybe...maybe…

His heart nearly stops when an orderly crosses his path, but all she does is nod and keep walking. Apparently his disguise is convincing enough that it doesn't trigger any alarm. 

He _feels_ Helen before he sees her. There's a strange electricity in the air whenever she's around, a staticky feeling like a radio dialed in between stations. She's staring down at a chart, twirling a pen between her improbably long fingers. 

He whispers her name urgently, and Helen she looks up and _smiles_ , her lips seeming to curl far past the edges of her face. 

"Martin! How kind of you to pay me a visit! No gloomy Archivist in tow today?"

"Uh, no... no, I..." he hesitates. "We got separated... I... I think..." Now that he’s talking to someone other than Dr. David, it doesn’t sound right. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or just being on his feet as much as he's been for the last... twenty minutes? Maybe? But he feels off. Dizzy and unfocused.

"I-I need help. Do you think I could... use your door, maybe? Just to get back to Jon?" 

He doesn't know why he feels so pathetic. Maybe it’s the nurses' get-up she's in. Or maybe it’s the way her smile hasn't changed.

"Of course, sweetheart. Anything for the Archivist's pet." Her smile somehow manages to widen even more.

Martin isn't sure he likes being called Jon's pet, but it's not like he hasn't been called worse. He blinks, and the door is in front of him, looking for all the world as if it had always been there. Taking a deep breath, he pulls it open. 

"Oh, Martin," Dr. David says, shaking his head. "I thought we were past this."

* * *

Dr. David sighs and runs his fingers through his hair in a way that is so classically, _painfully_ Jon that it makes Martin sob into his gag. It's an awful, complex example of Dr. David finding ways to have his cake and eat it, too; to be both cruelly similar to and completely different from the man Martin loves. Or thinks he loves. If Jon's real. Martin wants to think he's real.

A muzzle of foul-smelling leather cups the lower portion of Martin's face, wrapping beneath his chin and along his jaw snugly. Set in the muzzle, forcing his mouth agape so wide his jaw aches, is a ring gag.

The gag is humiliating enough. But the worst part, worse than how anyone and everyone could fuck his face with abandon, worse even than catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror and seeing something subhuman, is the fact that it's a perfect gag for Dr. David to slide an inflatable ball into and inflate it until Martin's tongue is forced up and back. When that happens, Martin can't _breathe,_ not even through his nose. He can't make noise, can't scream or beg. Dr. David even tested it, inflating the bulb before twisting the clamps on Martin's nipples or smacking his cunt with a crop.

The fact that Dr. David has chosen this gag does not bode well. He hasn’t brought out the bulb yet, but Martin knows it's only a matter of time.

Martin's in a straitjacket too, but not a normal one. This one has holes in the chest, leaving his tits on display, and his arms are folded behind his back, nearly level with his shoulder blades. His shoulders already ache in a way that promises to be much worse as time passes.

"I have to say, Slut. I'm disappointed," Dr. David says, and it's weird, but he sounds...sincere. That settles oddly in Martin's head, like a puzzle piece that looks right but doesn't quite fit properly where you think it will. "I thought we were making progress. I thought we were finally getting somewhere. And then you went and pulled that stunt and honestly, I'm…well. Not _surprised,_ I suppose. You and I both know what it was about, don't we?"

 _"Nnnnhh!"_ Martin grunts defiantly through his gag. He immediately regrets it. Dr. David's expression darkens and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out the inflatable part of the gag. Martin moans and shakes his head frantically, pleadingly, but Dr. David slaps him hard across the face.

"You lost the right to complain the moment you entered this hospital," he snaps. "And any indulgence I might have allowed has officially vanished with my patience." He shoves the ball into Martin's mouth roughly. "Now, you know what's about to happen, don't you, Slut?" Martin chokes out a whine and nods. "I'm going to shut you up until I'm done. Any thrashing or complaining will only make this last longer. I'm going to tell you what's going to happen, and you don't get to make a sound or take a breath until I'm done. And you have no one to blame but yourself for this, isn't that right?" 

Martin nods, fighting to get his breathing under control. Dr. David begins to squeeze the pump rapidly, and Martin closes his eyes and fights to keep his composure as the gag expands in his mouth, more and more, until…

He opens his eyes and stares up at Dr. David pleadingly. Dr. David nods and holds the pump in his hand, fiddling with it idly as he speaks.

"As I was saying. I'm not surprised you've done this, just disappointed. Perhaps as much in myself as you, Slut; I thought we'd been making progress but it seems you need more...drastic treatment."

Martin can’t help but rock slightly, his head beginning to pound, his chest burning for a need of air. He fights to control himself. _I have to be good, this is my own fault, I just have to be good and he'll let me breathe._

"So, instead of giving you structure, you're going to spend the foreseeable future as a free use whore. Do you understand what that means? It means you'll be available for anyone to use, at any time, for any reason. Not much of a punishment, considering your disgusting lack of self-control, but I think it'll do the trick."

Before Martin's grip on himself shuts down completely, the bulb in his mouth deflates abruptly. He gasps for air through his nose, snot flying out of his nostrils with the force of it. His head spins from the lack of oxygen, surely he’s about to pass out.

“How long this lasts will depend on your behavior,” Dr. David says, and the only reason Martin doesn’t throw himself to Dr. David’s feet in slavish gratitude for the privilege of _breathing_ is the fear that it’ll be taken as a disruption. “Your treatment may take quite some time. However, while some messes are acceptable, others… Hm.” Dr. David taps his chin with a knuckle thoughtfully. Then, without another word, he pops the bulb out of Martin’s gag, turns, and walks out of the room.

Martin stays there on his knees, shaking, obedient. His knees start to scream from his weight crushing them into the tile, his shoulders are starting to join them, but he stays still and focuses on breathing. He can get through this. He can. Maybe staying outside of his room will make it easier for Jon to find him. 

Not even the humiliation at the idea of being found like this is enough to crush the wellspring of ugly, desperate hope that image brings up. Jon finding him, freeing him, holding him. He clings to that like a lifeline; it’s a lifeline made of gossamer, but it’s better than nothing.

Jon wouldn’t leave him here. He wouldn’t. He exists, he’s real, and he’s looking for him.

Dr. David returns with a pair of orderlies and a tray rattling alongside them. Martin can’t see what’s on the tray from his vantage point, but from the looks on their faces, it’s nothing good. Without a word, the orderlies pick him up and throw him face-down on the table, pushing his legs up and apart so his arse is thrust up obscenely. Straps go around his calves, holding them in position, and a hook is strung through an eyelet at the head of the table and connected to the top of his muzzle, keeping his face firmly against the faux leather.

“Excellent, thank you. I’ll take it from here.” Dr. David’s voice is low, silky smooth, sending a shudder through Martin like nothing else. He squeaks as a cool hand runs along the inside of his thigh, up towards his cunt.

“You’ll be on a liquid diet for the duration of this treatment,” Dr. David says. “You haven’t been shitting much lately, but it’s good to cover our bases. Before we get you moved to where you can be used as so desperately need, we’ll have to clean you out and ensure there’ll be no leaks.” The hand moves to Martin’s arse, smoothing over the curves in a way that’s more terrifying than almost anything else he’s done to Martin so far.

“An enema first, I think. To ensure no unnecessary messes." Martin groans weakly, earning a sharp, painful slap on the arse. "You do _not_ want me to fully gag you for this," Dr. David says coldly. "I can promise you that."

Martin tries to stay quiet but it’s so difficult, so desperately difficult. The liquid filling him is warm and weirdly tingly, and alongside the waves of growing urgency and cramping is a growing ache in his cunt. He can feel his brain start to slip out of place like a light bulb unscrewed just enough to start flickering. He can’t hold onto his thoughts beyond vague ideas of _need._ _Need_ to be unplugged, _need_ to be fucked, _need_ to come.

A hand runs up and down his back almost soothingly, and Martin moans and arches into the touch.

“There’s a good slut,” Dr. David says, not unkindly. “Almost done, then we can insert a catheter and get started.”

The words slip out of Martin’s head like they’re covered in oil; his whole body feeling heavy and thick and warm. Even the cramping takes on a weirdly erotic feel, the sharp pangs shooting into his cunt and making his cock twitch. Finally, the plug is removed and he’s allowed to release the liquid. The cramping stops but the heat, the thick arousal, seems to only get worse. He lets out a weak, questioning little _ah? ah?_ and hears Dr. David chuckle. 

“Just a bit of medicine to help you relax,” he says. “Don’t want you hurting yourself.”

Oh. That makes sense. Martin doesn’t want to hurt himself either, so it’s fine, it’s just _fine._

He barely understands what’s going on anymore. Everything’s so spinny and colorful, like the world’s become a kaleidoscope. The walls shift in color, taking on an iridescent quality that’s weirdly hypnotic to watch, like one of those optical illusion pictures but moving. 

Martin _needs_ something inside him. Fingers, a cock, a dildo, a vibrator, a plug, _anything._ His cunt is hot and tingling; it feels swollen, monstrously large.

His head is spinning. The light reflects strangely off the walls, twisting into strange, unnatural shapes that hurt to look at. He moans miserably, burying his face in the stiff white sheets. 

Someone slaps his cunt, making him gasp and recoil, but there's nowhere to escape to; he's bound too tightly. They slap him again, hard and stinging, right across his cock, and he whines. 

"Please stop, it hurts..."

"This is a punishment, you stupid little slut," someone tells him. "It's supposed to hurt."

His assailant seems to take pity on him, stuffing two enormous fingers into his cunt. He groans gratefully, rocking back against their hand, only to get another sharp slap across his taint. He sobs, biting down on the sheet.  
  
It takes nothing to get him to fall apart, and he's too far gone to care. His brain is blissfully blank as he comes, the mix of pain and pleasure leaving him feeling cored, like everything was scooped out.

"Hurry up," a voice snaps, sounding echo-y and far off, like it's being put through a filter. "There's a line, asshole!"

"He's got plenty of holes," his assailant retorts. "Use the front. God knows it's useless anyway."

The sound of a zipper fills his ears, and someone's cock rubs his oversensitized slit. "N-no—" Martin tries to argue, but they shove in regardless. His thoughts stutter to a halt as he processes how _full_ he is. He barely notices another orderly grabbing his chin and shoving his face against their sac. 

"Lick," they order, and Martin whines helplessly, too overwhelmed to comply. His hesitation earns him a slap across the face. The room spins, and he worries he's going to fall off the bed, but there's no way to brace himself. "Suck 'em, you little whore."

Tears running down his face, Martin sucks the orderly's balls into his mouth one at a time, tasting sweat and musk. The orderly moans, pulling him by the hair so he can thrust into his mouth. Martin immediately chokes.

His distress is ignored, as it always is. _As it should be,_ a voice that sounds a lot like Dr. David intones in his head. He sucks, frantic not to bite down as the pounding he's getting shakes him apart again, too much too soon.

"Don't get too excited about this one," the voice says from behind. "Loose as fuck back here."  
  
Martin's cheeks grow hot with humiliation. He shouldn't care what they think, shouldn't want them to enjoy using him, but the insult stings. 

"This'll tighten him up," someone says helpfully. A moment later, something pinches his nipples, making him cry out around one cock and clench down on the other. Clamps. What sort of hospital would have _nipple clamps?_ He loses the thought as they tug the chain, making the clamps tighten painfully. 

"Fuck, that's better," his assailant moans. "Should've known you'd love being hurt." 

He grips Martin's hips with bruising force, slamming into him until he finally comes. When he pulls out, Martin whines at the loss.

"Yeah, yeah, just give it a second."

There's an explosion of exquisite agony as Martin receives another series of merciless slaps to his cunt. Before he can catch his breath, another cock slams into him.

Distantly, Martin is aware of chatter above and around him. But the words don't make sense. They don't sound like any language he's ever heard. It’s like everyone is just making noises.

His mouth is suddenly filled with spunk, so much that it feels like it should be spurting from his nose, but instead he just coughs as the cock withdraws.

It goes on for... a long time. He doesn't know how long. Sometimes it feels like he loses time, like his brain shuts off and suddenly he's on his back, still bound but face to face with the one using him. He doesn't remember what they look like later, but he remembers screaming at the sight.

He does remember hearing familiar voices, though. Tim, a hand in his hair, telling him how he always wanted to fuck Martin's mouth. The thing that called itself Sasha, pinching his cunt and coldly remarking on how wet it is, how loose. Daisy, snarling into his ear as she fucks into him.

Bits and pieces slot into place oddly. Dr. David said he was delusional. Maybe he was right. Maybe all the people he thought were his friends, his boyfriend...maybe they were just waiting to use him. Maybe this is who Martin is. Once the thought occurs to him, it's hard to shake.

A familiar laugh rings in his ears, echoing over and over as someone straddles his face. Helen. She shoves her clit against his mouth, and he shakes his head. 

"That's not very nice, pet," she pouts. 

"Fuck you," he snarls, muffled against her cunt. 

She pinches his nose shut, grinding down against his mouth. He tries to shake her off, but he's still tied. His lungs scream for air as she rubs against him. Desperate, he gives her a messy lick from top to bottom, and she shudders and releases him, letting him gasp for breath. Tears sting his eyes as he laps her clit. She tastes like the color he sees when he presses his fingers against his eyelids. She tastes like the moment he steps off a carousel, and the world is still moving. Her laugh makes his ears ring. 

"What a good pet," she croons, raking her clawed fingers through his hair.

He whimpers, the tastes and sounds and smells and sensations leaving him off-balance and hungry for anything resembling kindness. He plunges his tongue into her, desperate for praise.

"Oh, that's _lovely,"_ Helen sighs, her voice shifting like an old radio. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but Dr. David does such good work! You should— _ah!_ —be grateful he's taken such a special interest in you!"

Martin lets the words wash over him, trying to absorb them but his brain is rapidly beginning to resemble cheesecloth. He slumps into his bonds, not quite relaxing but close enough, and Helen hums approvingly.

Warm hands stroke his inner thighs, pulling them apart. 

"This is for your own good," Jon murmurs, thrusting three fingers into his abused cunt. The sound it makes is humiliating, filthy and wet. 

It's been so long since he saw Jon. He misses him desperately. 

"Why did you leave me here?" he asks plaintively. 

"Because you're a desperate little _slut,"_ Jon replies, shoving another finger inside him and making him howl. 

"I'm sorry," he whimpers. "Please don't leave." 

Helen rocks against his face, and he sucks her clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue against the tip. She moans, spurting into his mouth as she comes, and doesn’t move until he’s swallowed every drop.

“I think we’re off to an excellent start, don’t you?” Jon asks.


	3. Breakthrough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan Sims knows exactly how many hours have passed since Martin went missing. He knows that the Spiral took him. What he doesn't know is how to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the lovely people who have been encouraging us and sharing in the Dr. David thirst! Cheers.

Jonathan Sims knows exactly how many hours have passed since Martin went missing. He also knows that time is meaningless in this context; the Spiral can stretch moments on and on until they snap like pulled taffy, or collapse years into a single day. 

He doesn't know what it's doing to Martin. That’s the worst part. He can see and know everything in the world, except for the one thing he wants to know most. He only knows Martin is alive because he refuses to know otherwise. Martin's absence is like a sore he can't stop picking at; his mind grazes the blind spot in his vision and refuses to stop its vain attempts to see.

It takes far too long to infiltrate Wonderland. The halls are labyrinthine, at once narrow enough to feel claustrophobic and wide enough to feel cavernous. It makes no sense, but nothing does in Wonderland; that’s rather the point. Sounds echo: the sound of their feet on the tile, the sound of garbled nonsense over the intercoms, doors squeaking open and slamming shut. And worse sounds: unrestrained sobbing, the pained wailing of the man he loves. He _knows_ Basira hears it too, he _Knows_ it, but she refuses to acknowledge it. She thinks Martin’s dead or lost forever. 

Jon knows he isn’t. He can’t quite _Know_ it though. The Spiral’s domain is full of illusions and shifting realities even when it isn’t actively trying to hide something from him, but the only thing he can tell about Martin is that Wonderland _is actively keeping him away from him Jon._

“Jon,” Basira says, not kindly. They’ve stopped again at a junction, a nurses’ station that’s covered in paperwork. The paperwork is covered in a nonsensical scrawl, line after line of text that's _just_ close enough to real words to make the reader doubt themselves, to think the problem lies in their mind. 

“Jon, he’s gone," Basira says.

“ _Fuck off_ ,” Jon snaps, because he’s tired of trying to be understanding of Basira’s growing impatience, tired of trying to negotiate for one more day, or hour, or minute. Her expression chills over even more but Jon can’t be bothered with it. He turns back to the paperwork on the desk, focusing on it, trying to force it to make sense, to _let him see._

Surprisingly, the meaning _does_ come to him, though he immediately wishes it hadn’t. He feels himself flush as vivid descriptions of Dr. David’s treatment of a victim’s severe case of “sexual hysteria” become far too visible for his comfort. His stomach roils as the descriptions grow more explicit, the treatments more grotesque. Worse are the familiar details: an absent mother, a lover Dr. David insists is a figment of the patient’s imagination. He doesn’t need to read the name on the chart. 

“What is it?” Basira asks, an alarmed edge to her voice. Jon realizes his hands are shaking so hard the paper is audibly rustling. 

_"Helen_ _,"_ Jon gasps, not sure if it's an accusation or a plea. He slams the papers down in a fury, turns on his heel, and more or less screams, _"Helen!"_

Basira takes an overt step back as the scream echoes through the halls, bouncing off the linoleum and chromed steel. Jon’s eyes fall on a bright yellow door as it creaks open and Helen peeks out, fingers curling over the edge of the door and eyes slightly wary.

“My dear Archivist!” She says. “Took you long enough. Lost, darling? Oh!” She steps out into the hallway, making an almost comical show of peering around. “Where oh where is our dear Martin?” 

"I was hoping you'd tell me that," he says as evenly as he can manage. 

"I'm not the RSPCA," Helen says airily. "Why would I know?"

"I know here's _here,_ Helen!" Jon snaps. "Where—where's the doctor? Doctor David?"

"Dr. David?" Helen taps a long finger against a razor-sharp chin. "Oh, he's making the rounds, darling. Very busy, lots of patients these days." She pauses, giving Jon a long look as his heart pounds harder and harder. He wonders how she'd sound, ripped apart and flayed by the Eye. He allows himself the leeway to fantasize for a moment.

Perhaps it shows on his face because Helen abruptly laughs and while it is largely cordial, he thinks he might hear just the slightest tinge of anxiety. 

_Good._

"I'm only teasing, darling. It's visiting hours, of course! And what sort of friend would I be if I didn't reunite my favorite power couple? Why, you're the William and Kate of the Apocalypse!"

It's a trap, it has to be a trap, but Jon doesn't _care_ . He'll face anything the Spiral has to throw at him if it means seeing Martin alive and whole and _his_. 

"Take me to him," he demands, unable to hide the tremor in his voice.

"Of _course_ ," Helen says, voice brimming with warmth, and perhaps for the first time since she rescued him from the wax museum, Jon thinks he might actually hate her.

She leads him deep into the bowels of the hospital, through corridors that seem to twist into infinity. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead as the scent of disinfectant fills his nostrils, with an undertone of fever-sweat. Fear gnaws at him, carving a pit into his stomach until she finally stops at a thick metal door. A heavy iron chain is locked around the handle.

"I'm sure he'll be thrilled to see you," she says, handing him the key.

Behind him, Jon hears Basira readying her gun, and he can't bring himself to blame her.

"Is he..." He stops himself at the sight of Helen's patient amusement. Swallowing his pride down hard, he says, "Thank you."

"Of course!" Helen chirps. "Do tell him I said hello." Jon turns to unlock the chain and when he looks back up, she's gone.

There's a sound he can't place, repetitive and mechanical, overlapping with something wet. Jon follows the sound to a curtained area in the back of the room. His hand shakes as he grasps the curtain. He doesn't want to know. But he needs to. 

He pulls open the curtain. 

Martin is bound to a gurney, his legs spread painfully wide to make room for the machine that drives into his abused hole, over and over. His thighs and the sheets are soaked with fluids. His breasts are circled with tight leather straps and covered in a mixture of semen and saliva. His freckled skin is marred with purple-black bruises, especially around his chest. A ball gag holds his mouth open to a visibly painful degree. 

Worst of all is his eyes: red-rimmed and vacant, staring ahead without recognition. Dried tears line his cheeks.

"Fucking hell," Basira whispers.

Jon is strangely calm as he rushes forward. It’s like the part of his brain that started screaming the moment he pulled the curtain back disappears, or maybe just passes out. He turns the machine off, watching Martin whimper and hunch slightly as it slows to a stop, and carefully removes the gag, letting it drop to the floor before cupping Martin’s cheeks.

"Martin?" He whispers, stroking away the tear stains with his thumbs as carefully as he can. "Martin, sweetheart. Look at me."

Martin's eyes take a few moments to focus but when he sees Jon, he flinches away until the straps bite into his skin. Jon is irrationally hurt for a heartbeat before Martin begins to babble.

"No more! Please, Doctor, I'm sorry!" he sobs, his voice hoarse and frayed at the edges. Jon spots a ring of bruises around his neck. "Please, I'll suck your cock, just don't bring them back!" 

"Martin, stop! You're hurting yourself!" Jon begs. Martin freezes so suddenly that for a second, Jon is worried he accidentally compelled him. Then Martin cringes away with a whimper, shoulders drawn up and head bowed as if preparing for a blow.

 _Maybe he is,_ an unforgiving little voice whispers in the back of Jon's head. _He almost certainly is. You took your time finding him and now—_

"Jon." Basira's voice cuts through the fog, carefully calm and controlled. "We need to get him down from there. Come on."

Martin is pliant as Jon dazedly works with Basira to undo the many knots and buckles restraining him to the gurney. His arms are slightly bluish in color and cold to the touch, his chest almost purple from the constriction. They focus on getting him settled on a blanket on the floor that Basira fishes out of her pack before delicately cutting rawhide strips away.

Martin… Jon doesn't know what to do with Martin. He tries to keep up a steady stream of reassurance, but none of it seems to matter. He gives up on petting Martin's hair or holding his hand almost immediately; Martin acts like every motion towards him is a threat and Jon simply doesn't have the heart to ignore the way Martin flinches from him.

"You take care of him," Basira says once Martin is bare and unrestrained. "I'll keep watch." She stands, pauses. "It'll… it might help to get him out of here. Don't rush him, but try to get him walking, yeah?"

"Yes…" Jon whispers, unable to look away from where Martin is curled up and determinedly not meeting his eyes. "Thank you, Basira. Truly. I-I-"

"It’s fine. I get it." She turns on her heel and walks to the door, gun at the ready, leaving Jon to focus on Martin.

It hurts. Jon wants to wrap him up in his arms and love him back into himself, hold Martin until he knows he's safe again. But Martin needs Jon slow and patient, soft and kind. 

"Martin?" Jon says. Martin flinches. "Martin, it's alright, darling. It's me. It-it's _Jon."_

"Jon isn't real," Martin says softly. "I made him up. B-because no one would love me. I'm just a whore."

Tears blur Jon's vision. He scrubs them away with the back of his hand. _"I_ love you, Martin. You're not a whore, you're my—" 

Jon struggles. Boyfriend? Partner? Lover? None of those words seem enough to encapsulate what he feels for Martin. "You're _everything_ to me."

A fine tremor passes over Martin, followed by a sob as he wraps his arms around himself. "S-stop lying to me! J-just hurt me already, I don't care, _please—"_

"Shhh, darling, shhh," Jon soothes. "I'm not going to hurt you; I'll never hurt you. Never." Martin is curling in on himself, caving in like a burned-out home. Jon knows Basira won't leave but he also knows they _have_ to get out of here, that any wounds will only sit and fester if they remain.

"Martin," Jon says, infusing his voice with as much firmness as he can manage, forcing it steady. Martin gasps and looks up at him, wary. "I won't do anything you don't want me to. You told me to stay out of your mind and I'll keep that promise." He takes a deep breath and holds a hand out, the one marred by Jude, pocked with scars. "What can I do to help you _see?"_

Martin's weeping grows louder, and he cringes away until his back hits the base of the gurney. "Please, no more tests! I promise I'll be good, I'll believe whatever you want me to! I'm sorry, Doctor!"

Fresh guilt lances through Jon as he watches Martin weep. He's beginning to fear that he's already lost. Desperate, he kneels on the edge of the blanket, holding out his scarred hand again. "Please, Martin, I'm begging you. Just look at me, _really_ see me. I promise, no tests, no treatments. I just want you to see me. "

Martin swipes away his tears with the back of his hand, looking up at Jon. His eyes are wide and terrified, but he does as Jon asks. 

"I've loved you for so long," Jon says softly. "Before I even understood what I was feeling. I almost lost you before, but you came back to me. We were in Forsaken, the empty shore stretching for miles around us, and you were ready to give up, but you _came back to me._ Please, Martin. Please don't leave me alone again." Jon's voice hitches, and he swallows hard. "Please come back to me."

Martin stares at him, eyes wide, tears streaming down his cheeks, but it looks different. Calmer.

"Don't lie," Martin whispers, but it’s not a broken plea. Jon shakes his head frantically.

"Never. Not to you, Martin. Not now." He can't stop the sob that pushes up from his gut when he says, brokenly, "You're my _reason."_

Everything teeters on a wire for a heartbeat, Jon's heart beating painfully in his chest. Then, Martin reaches out and takes Jon's hand in his, carefully, anxiously. Jon cradles Martin's proffered hand in his own like a baby bird, something precious.

"W-what if you're not real?" Martin whispers, hand tightening on Jon's even as he shrinks away nervously. "What if you go away again?"

_"Never."_

They’re interrupted by the sounds of shouting outside, followed by a scuffle. He hears Basira’s warning shout just before the door opens, revealing...Jon. 

Or something very like Jon, at least. The creature has the same face, the same height, the same greying dark hair. The only differences are the lab coat and stethoscope, and the sneer on his face. And his smooth skin, unmarked by scars. 

“Martin, what are you doing?” the other Jon snaps. “You’ve ruined a critical part of your treatment. We’re going to have to start over.”

Martin cringes behind Jon, still holding his hand tightly. 

“J-Jon came for me,” he says softly. “He’s _real.”_

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the doctor says. “Stop playing and get back on the table. I’m going to have to tie you tighter this time.” 

“You can’t convince him I’m not real,” Jon says, standing to face his double. “I can prove it.”

The doctor snorts. “Real, fake, what do I care? He’s just a whore. Why don’t you leave him in my care? _You_ can’t have any use for him.”

Hearing his own voice debase Martin makes his stomach lurch. Worse still is how Martin sobs, clings to his trouser leg. The doctor rolls his eyes, plainly disgusted.

"Come here, Slut," he says with a sharp snap of his fingers. "You're only making this worse for yourself." Martin whimpers and Jon feels his grip start to loosen.

Something deep in Jon snaps. Something a bit too close to monstrous for comfort. He takes a step forward, putting himself firmly between Martin and the doctor.

"I Am the Archive," he snarls, feeling Wonderland warp under the weight of the words. "He is Mine. And _You..."_ he feels something _split_ like the skin of an apple, the roof of the domain cracking open and something peering down with vicious interest. The doctor _wails,_ dropping its outer shell and becoming something twisted and razor-thin.

_"You Are Nothing."_

With a roar of static and white noise, the doctor has wrenched apart, been flayed open by the Eye. And not for the first time, Jon relishes the taste.

When Jon looks down, Martin is still crouched behind him, staring at the scorched tile where the doctor stood. 

"J-Jon," he says, swallowing. "It really is you."

Jon kneels in front of him, gently brushing the tears from his face. 

"Yes, love. It's me."

"I-I'm so sorry," Martin says, his face twisting in shame and grief. "I—I did such horrible things for him. He was right, I _am_ a whore, you sh-shouldn't touch me—"

Sobs wrack Martin's frame, and Jon pulls him close, relieved when he doesn't flinch away. He strokes his hair and back, kissing his forehead. "You didn't do anything wrong, love. You did what you had to do."

"Wh-why didn't you come sooner?" 

The guilt is so overwhelming Jon can't speak for a moment. He swallows hard. "I—I tried, love. They kept you from me, but I never stopped trying, I promise."

Martin nods, burying his face in Jon's shoulder. Jon holds him as tightly as he can. Losing Martin was like losing part of himself; having him back means feeling whole again. 

"I'll never let anyone hurt you again," he whispers. "I'll kill them first." Martin sighs, relaxing in Jon's arms.

"I missed you," Martin mumbles, marble-mouthed. He's close to shutting down, Jon can tell, and they can't afford to waste any more time.

"I missed you too, love," Jon whispers, pressing another kiss against his temple. "So much. Sweetheart, I know you're tired, but can you walk?" Martin blinks at him, pulling back just enough to scrub at his eyes with his hand.

"I... I think so... I'm not... I wasn't allowed..." He looks so threadbare and wire taut that Jon's heart feels as if it's being ground into dust. 

"You can lean on me if you need to, darling," Jon says. "Come on, let's get out of here. I've got you, Martin."

Once Martin's tears have dried, Jon wraps the blanket around him carefully. He looks a little paler, with bruises on his wrists and throat, but those will heal. The important thing is that they're together, and he can keep Martin safe. 

They find Basira standing over the cooling bodies of two orderlies. She keeps her gun drawn as they work their way through the halls, though no one and nothing challenges them.

Every part of Jon is relieved to have Martin safe by his side. He can hardly take his eyes off him, even as he limps down the hall and Jon is filled with the knowledge of every place he hurts, and why. His hands clench into fists, though he tries not to let Martin see his anger, even as he pledges to exterminate each creature that contributed to his suffering. Revenge can come later; for now, he just needs Martin safe. 

"Where are we going?" Martin asks.

A location reveals itself to him, a nearby house nearly untouched by the horrors around them. 

"Someplace safe," Jon answers. "I know the way."

* * *

When the exit door opens and the eye-dotted sky reveals itself, Martin begins to sob.

"God, it’s awful, isn’t it?" He says, half-laughing. "B-But I'm so glad it’s _real_." Jon gets it. He thinks Basira does too.

Basira doesn't protest any mention of rest, and for that Jon is deeply grateful. She takes point as they make their way to the house. It's a liminal space sitting between the Lonely, the Hunt, and the Vast: a cabin planted next to a frozen-over lake in the middle of what feels like the Russian taiga but couldn't possibly be any farther north than Liverpool.

Inside is ramshackle but quiet. It rather reminds Jon of the cottage in Scotland but closer to how he thought one of Daisy's safehouses would be: no grandmotherly wallpaper or musty rose-colored curtains here.

"Get him cleaned up and dressed," Basira says briskly, shrugging off her pack. "I'll get a fire going."

He leads Martin to the bathroom, helping him sit on a low stool while Jon runs the water, being careful to make it warm but not too hot. Thankfully the owners of the house left their toiletries behind, wherever they are now--he makes an effort not to know. 

"Do you need some privacy?" he asks softly, though the idea of being separated pains him. Martin shakes his head. 

"I-I think I'll need help," he says shyly. "My arms are still pretty sore from...well. They're just sore."

Slowly and carefully, Jon helps Martin out of his clothing, guiding him into the warm bath. Martin winces as he settles in.

Jon rolls his pant legs up and settles in behind him, running his fingers through Martin's dark curls affectionately, luxuriating in the feeling, the fact that he _can_. He ignores the oddly sticky texture. Martin hums with pleasure, but there's a wavering note to it as Jon carefully starts wetting his hair to wash.

"I'm sorry," Martin whispers. Jon bites his lip, lathering up Martin's hair.

"Martin, you-"

"I _believed_ him..." Martin says, his eyes shut tight. "You know... after awhile. I thought... I tried not to but he looked like you and sounded like you and you weren't..." He swallows visibly, and Jon rubs little circles against his scalp.

"I wasn't there," Jon whispers, trying and failing to keep from crying.

"It doesn't matter. I still should have known." Martin says. 

"He did everything he could to convince you. After spending that long in captivity, anyone would start to have doubts." 

"How long was I there?"

"I could tell you how many hours, but the truth is, the Spiral distorts your sense of time. However long you think you were there is probably the closest to the truth." Martin doesn’t follow up, doesn’t inform Jon of how long it felt like. In a way, Jon is grateful.

He rinses Martin's hair with water from a cup, pouring it carefully to avoid getting suds in his eyes. He works conditioner into the curls, combing them with his fingers as he goes. Afterward, he finds a flannel and rubs soap onto it.

"You were incredibly brave," Jon says, rubbing the cloth across Martin's shoulders. "Not many people could make it out of that place with their sanity intact."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Martin says quietly. 

Jon rinses Martin's shoulders and kisses the clean, smooth skin. "I'm sure."

Martin leans his head over onto Jon's knee, neither of them caring about the wet spot the contact leaves. 

"I thought you didn't want me anymore," Martin says, so quietly Jon has to strain to hear. "That you... I dunno. Saw what I was doing and decided I wasn't worth the bother." He nuzzles into the side of Jon's kneecap, continuing before Jon can respond, "But here you are. Just like always." Jon hums wordlessly, because anything else might betray how close he is to simply dissolving into tears.

They're both silent as Jon washes the rest of Martin's body, pausing from time to time to kiss his cheeks and forehead. Pain flashes across Martin's face several times, and Jon vows again to eradicate every trace of the creatures that hurt him. 

Once Martin's clean, Jon helps him out of the tub, wrapping him in a fluffy towel that's only a bit moth-eaten. He takes another towel to Martin's hair, patting his curls dry. 

"Thank you," Martin says softly.

Jon smiles gently and gets up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to Martin's lips before leading Martin to the bedroom. This had been someone's retreat before the end, and the bed is larger than the one in Daisy's safehouse. 

Jon tucks Martin before asking, "Do you need anything else? I could make you tea?" Martin stares up at him for a heartbeat before reaching up.

"Please don't leave," he chokes out, and Jon rushes to hold him as he bursts into tears. Martin's sobs are deep and heavy, and Jon can only hold him, whispering promises and apologies and oaths of adoration and devotion. All of Martin’s fear and pain and humiliation spill out of him, until slowly, in stages, Martin's tears subside. His grip loosens a shade, his breathing slows. 

Jon settles in, prepared to stay for as long as Martin needs.

“Sleep, love,” Jon finally murmurs. “I’ll be watching over you.”


End file.
